Drabble Dabbles
by IcelandGirl812
Summary: A place for all the lonely drabbles that refuse to shut up until they're written, to call home.
1. Hold My Hand

**A/N: As the title suggests, this'll be for drabbles. Various lengths, topics, prompts, etc. Blanket M-rating in case of cussing or... passion.  
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**Much and many thanks to Pauline for the idea.**

**Infinite thanks and endless love to Rach, Bets, and Vic. For so very much. And for prompts and encouragement and being there and being them.**

**This first one I wrote for Vican's beautiful banner during a challenge on TwiFicPics.  
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**Disclaimer: I own these words, but not the lovely inspiration from whence they came. Nor Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/iMauuY**

Keys are dropped on the moving box with a plastic plate on it – our makeshift version of an entryway table.

Some crime show on TV filters its way toward me; for now, I veer in the opposite direction without looking.

The table, and many envelopes cluttering and burdening it, is laboriously avoided.

Bread crumbs on the counter, but the dishes are all washed, neatly stacked and drip-drying in the dish-drain.

I want to sob at the sight.

And that's where he finds me, twenty minutes later. Standing in front of the sink, staring at the dishes.

Crying.

His steps are quiet yet tentative, his presence sparking and real as he enters.

We don't touch as he stops in front of me, that wall, barrier, _blockade_, thumping loudly between us.

As if it's pumping blood, as if it has a heart.

Maybe it has both of ours, trapped somewhere between or inside.

I don't know when it first popped up, if it was sudden and swift or built brick by brick, inch by inch until it was so tall we couldn't climb over it.

Or we stopped trying to.

It's there, nevertheless.

And now I don't know what to do, when confronted with the sight and weight of it so bluntly.

He's only a foot away, but my arms could never hope to reach around the barricade to him.

Not alone, they couldn't.

My tears haven't ceased, the air between us remaining wordless in spite of them.

What I expect him to say, I have no idea.

But I don't expect, and probably never would have, what he does.

The way his jaw goes taut, the way his lip disappears behind teeth, eyes filling full with determination.

The breadth between us ebbs, faster than I'd ever thought a foot of space – months of distance – could ever vanish, his feet no longer the only ones moving, traversing, diminishing.

He doesn't shush or murmur as we slip together, palms warm on my face, thumbs sure on my cheeks.

Tears are pushed away by his steady hands, steadier eyes unswerving and endless.

I mirror his position, seeing the tornado in his features – the whirling churn of worries and stress and _life_, sensing and knowing it's reflected.

But knowing, still, of the calm center in the midst of it.

Of _him_ in the midst of it.

He shifts and tugs, whispering to the room. To me. "Just hold my hand."

The _please_ is even softer than his first words, breathed out like an extension of him.

An extension I want to be.

I link our fingers, a smile breaking through the sludge as I feel smooth metal rub against my skin, remember the words engraved there – etched permanently.

Almost think I can feel them flowing out and up, wrapping around me.

Around us.

_Love is enough._

Relief swirls and surges from him as his eyes hover shut, instincts knowing he needed this just as much as I did.

Because there's a balance between us, a two-way street.

And now the construction has ended on that road, leaving things clear.

Maybe there's still potholes, still uneven lanes and unpainted lines.

Yet the road is _open_, a repair crew waiting by the side to fix the rest.

Slowly, perhaps, but in due time.

And time with him is enough.

Is all that really matters.


	2. Waterfall

**A/N: I'll prolly post one of these a day until I run out or something.**

**Disclaimer: I own some on-sale tic-tacs. Which are not Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - some waterfall in a movie<strong>

There is nothing like his arms and hands.

The searing safety I feel within both and each.

Nothing like the warmth of his body.

The intensity of his eyes, allure of his lips, blaze of his touch.

Hair soft between my fingers, jaw hard as it's cradled in my hands.

Hips a steady beat spelling out his thoughts, emotions.

Telling me exactly and precisely what neither of us can utter.

We are doomed to silence, happy in the knowledge of our unspoken words.

More than that, transcending anything ever thought or known.

Should be scared by that, frightened of our depth, his fire.

Should is not _am_, knows nothing of _can't_.

My skin burns everywhere he is.

And he is everywhere.

Singed and scorched from the inside out, from top to bottom; thoroughly.

In the struggle of drowning, losing myself in his flame, trading thinking and worrying and rationalizing for simple, exquisite _feeling_, he's there.

Spark of light behind my eyes, surge of blood in my veins, incinerator to grasp onto.

Waterfall to my senses.


	3. For

**Disclaimer: I own some french toast in my stomach, not Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/iWJ9MB**

There was that fateful day.

Sometime in October.

Maybe November.

It's really no surprise that my memory isn't as useful anymore.

You've seen to that.

But you can't take away the pieces I remember every day.

The parts I refuse to let go of.

Like that road, that curve, the fog.

The colors, shapes, the way they swirled around me.

I remember speed, too.

Whether that was my doing or yours, is too hazy.

Just as you've designed, I'm sure.

There was movement, reflex – horrible noise, terrible pulling; a reaction.

And you.

_You_.

I blame you; you know it.

But you don't let it stop you.

I hate you for that. For so much.

For your choices, for who you are, what you are.

For being a reaction.

For _forcing_ a reaction, a choice.

For making me yours.

For being mine.


	4. Can't

**Disclaimer: I own a fat cat. SMeyer just owns Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/kO43Tg**

She's been crossing her fingers for days.

I know.

I see.

And even here, she does.

Even as she waits.

As she mutters under breath, forehead creased, fingers fidgety.

Her posture's nervous.

Excited.

Pumping adrenaline.

I can't tell if it's from the location, or something else.

If graveyard's affect her at all.

Or if it's just me.

She thinks she's meeting me.

That I'll be there.

Show up.

I almost wish I could.

But I won't; can't.

It's not possible or feasible or probable.

No matter how much I can sense she wants it.

Wants me.

Optimism was first, foremost.

I thought it could all work out.

But no.

_No_.

It can't.

I can't.

It's not to happen.

Won't.

So I watch.

Always watch.

Forever watching.

Doomed to this.

Watch her shift her weight, glance around.

Her eyes still gleam with hope, with want.

My body aches to flood toward her.

To throw it all away for her.

To taste the true tang of freedom on her lips.

Feel the chains slip away with her touch.

Let the pleasure overwhelm, overcome.

Encase.

She closes her eyes, tips her head.

Crosses remaining fingers, then her arms - tight over her chest, mouth moving silently.

I take a step.


	5. Missing and Meaning

**No actual prompt for this one. It just kind of... happened.**

**Disclaimer: I own some fresh peanut butter cookies. But no Twilight.**

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><p>A shift in the sheets.<p>

Knowing what it is.

Who.

Awake and alert, but pretending just the same.

"I miss you."

No frustration, aggravation, exhaustion.

Just truth, the most honesty in months.

Maybe years.

Turn and meet, pretend sliding away.

Sincere eyes, pleading eyebrows.

Sensing confusion and doubt, wanting to console, erase.

Tentative fingers, asking and wondering.

Not a nod, not a shake.

But it's there.

And it's seen, noticed, felt.

Up and even, equivalent.

Face to face.

Closer.

Nose to nose.

_Closer_.

Mouth on mouth.

Hands slipping together, grabbing, gripping.

Holding, not letting go.

Tangled between, clasped tight; a step from hurting.

Another shift, falling.

Breathless and breathing in.

Mint and midnight coffee, underlying tone of woods.

Just as always.

Lifting and loosening, leaving the rest.

Leaving nothing covered, veiled, obscured.

Same vision, newer revelations and perceptions.

Familiar and remembering, muscle memory.

Fists of hair, lips of torture.

And eyes, still.

Honest and real and not hiding, not worrying, not stressing.

Not separating.

Open and authentic.

Saying without talking.

Assenting, asserting.

Agreeing.

All the way.

Something found, something fixed.

Here.

Together and same.

Not gone, but repaired, mended.

Healed.

And it's enough.

Falling into a rhythm, unsafe and uncontrolled.

Raw.

It's not as we were.

But what we _are_.

Whispers and murmurs come without request.

Not of things said to hear.

Instead, things of meaning, things meant.

Things felt and of feeling and wanting.

After everything, the want.

Persistent and pervasive, persevering.

Preserved.


	6. Used To

**Disclaimer: I donut own the computer with which I'm stealing netz to post this. Same applies for Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/jwUZwE**

We never used to fight this much, to argue what seems like constantly.

We used to get along.

Used to live in harmony, to be at peace with each other.

To be happy.

You used to make me happy.

All the time.

You used to walk in the room and cause a smile.

I'd see your unmistakable hair in a crowd and grin.

Uncontrollably.

But that's used to.

Used to, used to, used to.

As in past.

As in no longer, not anymore.

We _used to_ be in love.

Now, I don't know what we are.

What to call us or what to make of us.

What to say, to think.

To even feel.

And what to do about not missing you when you leave.

Not like I used to.


	7. Red and More

**Went away for the weekend, had crappy netz/no patience, and now proceeds a slight spam of these to catch up. Heh.**

**Oh, also, prompt for this one was in my head and not worth mentioning.  
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**Disclaimer: I almost wrote 'Dickclaimer' there. SMeyer just wrote Twilight.**

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><p>Kool-Aid.<p>

He tastes of it.

Staining his lips, tangy on his tongue.

Some sort of _red_ Kool-Aid.

Strawberry? Cherry? Tropical Punch?

Too hard to tell.

Too hard to care.

The same flavor as a decade ago, as the first time.

Grinning and laughing, because the irony isn't lost.

Inquiring eyes and pulling away.

Inching closer and seeing.

Knowing.

Smiles and shared secrets.

Shared memories.

Different now, lacking shyness, bubbles of awkward.

Of inexperienced and unexpected and scared.

Just warmth and pressure and savoring here.

Just hands sliding into place, comfortable and easy and igniting.

Inviting and invading smell of fruity liquid, chocolate, lumber.

Skin of his neck, playing fingers.

Teasing knuckles, shirt edging up.

Roaming, reveling.

Courage and knowledge, unafraid to want.

Clothed and covered, discovering despite.

Remembering, refreshing.

Returning and restarting.

More touch, sensation, more of his mouth.

More him, more all.

More needed, more craved.

Just more.


	8. Keletapthesis

**Disclaimer: Ownings - SMeyer: Twilight. Me: the friendship of some amazingly amazing lovelies. (I win.)**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit.[]ly/jEJ6UA**

He's two tables away.

Black pants, yellow shirt, interesting hair.

He should look terrible in that, or at least like a bumblebee.

But he doesn't.

And I covet him.

Beyond the outfit, he has good cheekbones, white teeth, a free smile.

I can't tell his eye color from here.

Tragic, that is.

Just another reason added to the list of why I should be closer.

The biggest, most eye-catching, initial reason is being ignored by him right now.

I narrow my eyes and try to send this thought telekinetically to him.

He doesn't move.

(I'll have to brush up on my telekinesis skills later. Or is it telepathy?)

He's reading something.

What, I can't tell.

It makes him laugh, moves his chest, lights his face.

I want to steal that book.

Be that book.

If I were that book, I'd be that much closer to what's on his plate.

To that mountain of deliciousness he's not even acknowledging.

If I were in front of him like that book, I'd be able to smell that sinful scent.

Breathe in the arousing aroma.

I'd have a chance to sink my teeth into the texture, chew through the crunch.

To taste every little trace of flavor.

I'm two-tenths of a millisecond away from orgasming as he finally pays the due attention.

Fingers flex, wrap around it.

Mouth opens, tongue pink and pleasant.

And I suddenly want something completely different and mostly the same.


	9. Revenge

**No prompt for this one. Just words and a scene and a feeling and voices that wouldn't leave.**

**Disclaimer: I own a superior nest of pillows. The Meyer just owns Twilight.**

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><p>Leg around my calf, wrapped tight.<p>

A push on the back of my knee, a no-nonsense mutter.

"Down."

Use her as my brace, face dragging across her chest, stomach, entire front of her body.

Both my knees hitting the tile, willing and wanting before her.

Grab to my hair.

Push at her skirt.

Foot on my shoulder.

My hand starting there, moving up her leg, along her thigh, sliding to the inside.

And stopping just short.

Frustrated, pulling my head where she wants.

Not giving in, chaste kiss over panties.

Such teasing, torturing.

Utter enjoyment.

Her growl; my chuckle.

Tugging roughly, hungrily, forcefully on my hair.

Abrupt and unforgiving and craving, fingers pushing past tempting lace.

Revenge.

Sweet and delicious and intoxicating.

Just like her.


	10. Escape

**Not my usual style (or length), per se, and no actual prompt yet again, but... well. Yeah.**

**Disclaimer: I own a mother who makes f'amazing mac and cheese. What does SMeyer own? Twilight.**

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><p>Escape.<p>

What a funny word.

It made me think of shackles.

Of cages.

Of impenetrable bars.

Of something tangible and real and something you actually _could_ escape.

And piña coladas, oddly enough. Damn radio.

A piña colada might have helped me right now.

But escape would do the trick better.

The only problem: I didn't have handcuffs, or prisons or boxes to escape.

I wasn't granted that luxury of realism.

I wanted to escape everything.

Escape it all, escape, escape, escape.

If I won the lottery, I could escape.

If I had someone here to distract me, they could help me escape.

If I could fly away, I'd escape.

All these things bustled into my brain, swarming and circling and taunting.

Because none of them were there, achievable.

Not even in the least.

And not just because of the lack of money, but because of obligations.

Fucking obligations I wanted to _escape _from.

But they were the very things that kept me from escaping.

I couldn't go, couldn't move, couldn't do a single fucking thing.

One way or the other, it didn't matter. I was still stuck.

Still unmovable.

In a sort of torturous, draining limbo.

Unable to escape, but unable to think of anything else.

I hated it.

And maybe I hated myself a little bit because I let it happen, somehow.

I couldn't keep myself happy, keep myself focused and caring.

Instead, I only dreamed of leaving, _escaping_.

I hated that, too.

[~|~|~]

Every day, I watch her.

Every day, I see her.

Every day, I try to talk to her.

Every day, I fail.

Every day, I stare.

Every day, I feel like a creeper.

Every day, I inevitably learn something about her.

Today, it changes.

Today, I do something different.

Today, she looks different.

Today, she seems off.

Today, my impulses can't be tempered.

Today, the aura around her triggers me.

"Smoothie?" I hold it out for her. "It's piña colada flavored, but still not terrible."

She stares at me with blinking eyes, the entire vibe surrounding her telling me to fuck off.

Telling the world to fuck off.

Telling me she doesn't need me, or want me.

That she doesn't appreciate my intrusion.

Doesn't welcome it or like it.

I find I don't care about that small fact.

Everything in me screams that she needs me. No matter how much she might not want to.

I can't ignore that part, ignore her, my instincts, anything.

I've never been good at the ignoring process.

At all.

[~|~|~]

Piña colada. Nice.

Fitting.

_Thank you, Karma._

_Could you be more of an ironic asshole?_

_Seriously, I don't appreciate this shit, you bitch._

_You send me some nosy, puppy-looking guy who doesn't own a hairbrush or enough money to shop anywhere besides a thrift store?_

_Granted, his hair does look kinda sexy, and he makes those faded jeans with the ripped knee work._

_But that is _so_ not the point, Karma._

_You know I hate piña colada anything. Why would you do this to me?_

_I get that we aren't the greatest friends, but seriously._

_Not cool._

I'd decided Karma could just go fuck herself.

Or, better yet, go fuck Fate. What a lovely pair they'd make.

And maybe if they were fucking each other, they'd skip out of my life and stop messing with me.

I glared toward the general direction I thought Karma and/or Fate might be.

"Are you okay?" Puppy-grunge-guy asked, fulfilling my first assumption of his nosiness.

"Peachy."

"You sure?"

"Quite."

He held the awful white thing toward me again. "Piña colada smoothie?"

"Nah."

"Can you only answer with one-word?"

"Maybe."

"Hi."

"Bye."

"Interesting."

"Stop."

"Why?"

"Because." Jeez. Couldn't he just leave a girl alone?

I wanted to go back to my fucking mind-circles about escaping.

And he was hindering that.

[~|~|~]

I stare, fighting a smile, as her aura shifts.

Not so much gloom and depression and make-me-worry as annoyance.

Even if the irritation is directed at me, I'll take it.

Anything is better than letting her stew inside her own head like that.

I sit down, not even pretending to ignore her glare.

Just not caring about it.

If she doesn't like me sitting here, that's her problem.

She can move, if it bothers her all that much.

Inside, I know she won't.

She'd never do that.

She's way too stubborn.

"Mine."

"What?"

"Table."

I like her feistiness. It's better than her depression.

And though the one-word conversation may grate on my nerves, it's a challenge.

I've only ever said no to three challenges.

This won't be one of them.

"And?"

"_Mine_."

"Share." It's not a question. Her eyebrows raise at that.

"Never."

"Please?"

"Bye."

"Hi."

"Stop."

"Familiar."

She points one black-tipped finger at me. "Repeater."

"Smoothie?"

"_No_."

"Sad." I take a sip, enjoying the coconut and pineapple flavors, eyes closing at the taste.

"Sexy."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing!" She's hasty and abrasive and abrupt. And I know I heard her murmur correctly.

Lust isn't in my job description.

Not one bit.

But as I continue to gaze at her, drink in _her_ instead of my smoothie, I think maybe that's not so bad.

Maybe _I _could use a little lust.

And, judging from the entirely different tones of frustration floating off her right now, I think maybe she could use some, too.

Maybe the consequences won't be that bad.

Maybe we can both benefit from it.

Maybe _yes_.


	11. Beat

**This kinda had a prompt, but seeing as how it was kinda a wonderful friend's story (which is kinda not posted yet) that kinda inspired it, it makes it kinda awkward if I were to divulge. But just kinda.**

**Disclaimer: I own a dog that's a bedhog. SMeyer owns Twilight.**

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><p>Gentle hands.<p>

Smooth skin.

Hard muscles.

Over me.

Under me.

All around.

Here, there.

Touching everywhere.

Puzzles and pieces and fitting.

Surrounded and kept and excited.

Anxious and worrying and waiting.

Just waiting.

He's paused, and he's looking, and we're staring.

There's nothing shy, uncertain, nervous.

Only eager.

And waiting.

Still waiting, still paused.

Still staring.

Another moment, another wait, and then he's moving.

Bending, brushing, lips, tongue.

Love.

Whispered words and beating hearts.

No air, space, time, breath.

He's close and touching and I can _feel_.

Feel so much, feel it all.

Feel him.

He's heavy, I'm hot, we're here.

All that waiting and now we're _here_.

Here and together and happening.

We climbed, withstood, overcame.

And now we _are_.

Reaching, hands, linking.

No words yet declaring, confessing.

Reflected, react, real.

Clumsy, abrupt, desperate.

In and one and messy and us.

There, home, nowhere.

Filling, filled, full.

Wanted, wanting.

Love.

Finally.

No more waiting.

Ever again.

Freeing thoughts, jerky breath, body on a string.

Sweat and skin and slick.

Tangled and twisted and truth.

Arching, pulling, feeling.

Lips and tongue and eyes.

So much.

Too much.

Not enough, never enough.

Don't stop, can't stop, won't stop.

Frantic heart, fraying control, frenzy.

Falling and fallen.

Intense and living.

Lungs, air, sharing.

Close, closer, closest.

Mingled breath, beatings, bodies.

Searching, finding, _found_.


	12. Tepid

**Disclaimer: I own droopy eyelids and delightfully attractive bags under my eyes. SMeyer owns sparkly stones with freaky eyes. (I also own some tired-induced grumpiness, twould seem.)**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/nXsnXX**

I hate this apartment.

Eggs won't stay solid on the counter.

Doors can't close all the way.

Windows won't open.

Bathtubs leak.

Taking a bath gets really fucking hard when you can't keep any water in it.

The activity has begun to lose its pleasurable qualities for me.

Yet I don't stop doing it.

Story of my life, unable to ever stop or quit or give something up.

The same is true in my marriage.

I can't end it, but I don't want it.

Don't want the sharing of beds, cuddling and attempts at long-gone pillow-talk.

Don't want coffee and awkward silences together in the morning.

Or the creaking floorboards as he comes in from work.

The routine he follows, and I can hear.

Keys dropped, briefcase down.

Toward kitchen, open fridge, peruse contents.

Probably a sigh, then ten-second pause, footsteps toward the bedroom.

By the time he eases open the bathroom door, his tie is loosened messily.

Eyes are tired, lips weary, jaw unshaved.

He sees me immediately, focuses only on my face.

"Dinner?"

My own sigh held back, legs crossed in tepid, shallow water. "Pasta."

And he leaves again.

Like always, everyday.

I wish he'd stay.


	13. The Gap

**Prompt was... well. Not a picture-one for this. Let's just go with that.**

**Disclaimer: I own actual focus today. SMeyer owns Twilight.**

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><p>We were flawed.<p>

We didn't try hard enough.

We let the chasm grow with each day, month, moment we didn't talk to each other.

Didn't fling ourselves out there, into the open space, into the separation.

Into that yawning gorge between us, hoping against hope that we'd find an invisible bridge to catch us.

To string us together, to push away the space, the apart.

But we didn't.

And now we pay.

Now we're flawed for maybe forever, unable to ever get back what we had.

Maybe that's the problem, though.

Maybe what we had was flawed, too.

In all the wrong kind of ways, none of the beautifully right.

Maybe it's more of why the gap got bigger and bigger until it was impassable.

Until we gave up even trying.

Even _wanting_ to try.


	14. Instinctual Incoherency

**I was horny, I wrote this, sue me. S'pretty much what my only prompt was.**

**Disclaimer: I own two bed-hog pets crowding my sleeping space rn. SMeyer owns what? Twilight. Pssh.**

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><p>We tango and waltz and cha-cha without shoes.<p>

Pants, shirts, clothes at all.

Dancing in a desperate way, the pulse of us soft and thick in the air.

For now, there's no him.

No me, no anyone else.

Only us, only what we make.

What we are.

What we give.

Get.

Sound and sanity fall away, yielding to something bigger.

More powerful, more resounding, absolute.

Something no one can touch, or break.

Or steal, kick, crumble.

Mixing and blending and stirring breath, instinctual incoherency.

Combining, carrying.

A cadence created, a twist and wrench and pull and give.

In more places than just one.

In everywhere.


	15. Table vs Drawer

**Prompt?** **I was staring at the furniture in my room, just generally contemplating life, and _this_ wouldn't shut up. Voila.**

**Disclaimer: I own too many white bras. SMeyer owns the black-bound Twi-series.**

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><p>"You... you have a bedside <em>table<em>!"

"Yes."

He's trying to distract me with his lips.

I don't let it work.

"No drawer in sight!"

"Yes."

Now he's using his tongue _along with_ his lips.

Dirty rotten cheater.

"You have a bedside _table_ that does _not_ include a drawer."

"Yes, yes, once more – yes, fucking yes!"

I've gotten him wound up, some sort of cross between annoyed, irritated and frustrated.

I like it.

"But... But _why_?"

"Oh jiminy croquet's fuck."

He says strange things like that quite often. Usually when he's in this kind of mood.

There's no point in denying it – I like this, too.


	16. Stare and Stairs

**Disclaimer: I own too many mini-boxes of Nerds, leftover from Halloween. SMeyer just gets to own Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/p4qXMe**

I stare at them.

These stairs.

Stare and stare and wonder.

Wonder about life, about lessons, about metaphors.

I could make a metaphor about these stairs, I'm sure.

About how they wind, can be hard to climb.

How they can become never-ending, steal your energy and your will.

But that would be too easy.

I'm sick of the effortless.

Instead, I want my eyes to know something different, something unnoticed.

Something no one else has seen – and never even thought to.

So I keep on staring.

Little by little, it strikes me.

Gets under my skin and inside, until it's all I can see, all I can feel, think, _be_.

Never, would I have ever expected a staircase to be so exquisite.

To be a journey upward, paved in beauty.

No one ever really tells you that.

Ever really teaches you to see splendor.

To see the good and the glorious, the graceful and great, gratifying and genuine.

You did, though.

_You_, the different and the unseen, the surprise and the secret.

You taught me all that, taught me to see.

Taught me everything.

And then some.

Taught me to look, to care, to bother.

To want and to have, to need and to know.

You showed me how to be alive, how to cherish.

But you never prepared me for missing.

Longing and grieving and yearning.

For the day when the last step of the staircase would be yours.

When the beauty would be behind, below, beneath.

And the unknown and uncharted waiting for you on the landing.

You skipped teaching that class.

Maybe because you didn't know, didn't want to know.

Or, maybe, you just _couldn't_.

I'll never know which.

Someday, I'll probably realize that's a lesson in itself.

Maybe your final one, your last gift.


	17. Wrong and Right

**This was my piece for the very first Iron Pen challenge, but I didn't finish in time.** **And then promptly forgot all about it until about a week or so ago.**

**Disclaimer: I own a DVR addiction. The Meyer owns teh Twilight.**_  
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><p><em>Tick, tock.<em>

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick, tock. Tick tock._

Every tick is a second, every tock another.

I can feel them on my wrist even without looking.

The seconds seem to pass like weeks or years, the tension thicker than the humid air.

My pulse is fast, heart matching its pace.

Yet I almost feel as if every beat that thrums in my body goes by in slow motion.

Not anticipating, not dreading.

I'm stuck between the two, unable to claw my way out.

And he's not helping.

Not in the least.

He's taken a chance.

Fooled himself into believing.

I know it's partly my fault, that I encouraged him.

Egged him on. Pushed, pushed, pushed.

But that's part his, too.

He pulled, pulled, pulled. So much until I couldn't.

_Couldn't_.

All I had left, all I could do, was to push in return.

Maybe if I hadn't, we wouldn't be here.

If I hadn't pushed, his pulling might not have come to anything.

I'm distracted abruptly by a different kind of pull and push, a kind infinitely better.

And no longer only a memory.

The distraction doesn't last, though; my thinking starts up again, too soon.

I realize it doesn't matter for us either way.

There's no going back, now.

No changing, altering.

Fixing.

I can't fix what's been done.

What _we've_ done.

I can't, and I'm not sure I want to.

Or would want, if I even could.

But I can't.

I tell myself that over and over – I can't. I can't. I can'tIcan'tIcan't.

If I say it enough, it'll be completely true.

And then I won't have to worry.

To regret, wonder, analyze.

Deep down, I still know it's him.

All him, always him, all his.

He's the one who took the chance, who took what I offered and made it what we had.

Made it better than the offer.

Better than anything I'd ever had before.

Yet still, he knew it was a risk. He _knew_.

I was upfront from the very start.

Or, at least, the very start of the last two hours.

I had to tell him, he had to the make the decision on his own.

Maybe, I pushed him toward the decision I wanted.

(Which I did.)

But he was strong.

If he hadn't _really_ wanted it, he would have resisted.

And he didn't.

He gave in, I gave in, _we_ gave in.

It was the top of the ninth, two outs, the bases loaded, and he went for it.

Shoved off and ran and dove.

All head first.

All toward home.

I try not to think the word _stealing_. Even though I know that's exactly what he did.

He stole home.

Stealing a piece of me at the same time.

And now, here with him and relaxed and sated and feeling _good_, I can't seem to quiet my brain.

I think in circles, in bits, scenes, flashes, memories.

In guilt.

The guilt is mine, and mine alone.

I pushed, after all.

Responded to his pull, his draw.

The lure, the attraction, the intense and new.

I wanted him, craved this.

Now it's dawning on me I may have thrown everything away for that.

For ignoring the base-coach voice that has become my conscience.

For not listening when he signaled to me the bases were loaded, but I shouldn't go for it.

Shouldn't do exactly what he did and steal home.

And most of all, for wanting _him_ and _this_ more than I wanted to think, to reflect, to see the consequences.

His fingers are an insistent tug back to reality, trailing along me with a surprising gentleness.

Gentle wasn't him only a few moments ago.

I start to worry he may be a cuddler.

I already have one of those, and I _definitely_ don't need another.

My thoughts are shocking, make me blink.

The tone of my own words sounds as if I expect this to continue.

Expect to continue wanting him, getting him, having him.

_Needing_ him.

As ridiculous, wrong, awful, and so many other things that is, I think maybe it feels a bit right, too.

The wanting, getting, having.

All of it.

But it's not right.

It's _not_.


	18. Seesaw

**Disclaimer: I own a snoring cat. SMeyer owns a sparkling vampworld.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - Seesaw<strong>

Wood, knuckles.

Surprised, curious.

Open, hesitate.

Neck, gesture.

Go, steps.

Heat, brush.

Spark, burn.

Pause, heavy.

Hands, waist.

Quiet, knowing.

Accepting, assenting.

Tug, draw.

Carpet, hallway.

Door, dim.

Graze, soft.

Slow, easy.

Behind, against.

Lure, turn.

Shed, show.

Fear, assurance.

Smile, smirk.

Eyes, want.

Breath, shiver.

Touch, taste.

Down, close.

Sinking, nothing.

There, there.

Push, pull.

Forward, back.

Pressure, arch.

Grip, claw.

Lips, teeth.

Smooth, scruff.

Grasp, gasp.

Fingertips, palm.

Tingle, alive.

Slip, slide.

More, more.

Lift, fall.

Shift, move.

Angle, tangle.

Around, in.

Give, get.

Teeter, totter, plummet.

Like a seesaw, a slide, a swing.

He's a playground.

Mine.


	19. Dick

**I wrote this (on my phone in a couple super long messages) for a friend for... I can't even remember why. But tis just a bit o' fun and ridiculousness.  
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**Disclaimer: I own a dusty tv. SMeyer only owns Twilight.**

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><p>Once upon a time, there was a guy.<p>

With a dick.

And this guy with a dick loved said dick.

Very much.

They were rather... close.

In their relationship.

But, sometimes they argued. Just like any couple.

Mostly because Dick was angry that Guy With Dick persistently chose to ignore Dick's many needs.

Dick couldn't have that, of course.

He had fucking _needs_.

And he was tired of those needy needs being ignored by Guy With Dick just because Guy With dick couldn't find someone to suit his pickiness.

So, one day, Dick went on an intervention of sorts.

All for Guy With Dick, obviously.

Dick was man enough to do the right thing for Guy With Dick.

And hey, if the right thing for him also happened to be the most amazing thing for Dick, so be it.

All throughout that day, Dick was on the hunt. Sniffing like a bloodhound for the perfect perfection.

Boobs were nice, don't get Dick wrong, but he also had a penchant for asses.

And legs.

And smell.

And hair.

And complexion.

And footwear.

Dick had a mild case of feet-fetish.

But nevertheless, Dick persevered, sifting through all the many choices Guy With Dick's place of education offered.

He saw many, was stirred by many, contemplated many.

But none really accomplished what he was searching for, the flawless flawlivity never really found.

Until both he and Guy With Dick heard a strange meowing.

Guy With Dick was curious and marched on to investigate.

Dick was annoyed and wished to go "investigate" that redhead in stilettos that just walked by.

But Guy With Dick tended to never listen to him.

(Another problem in their relationship that Dick hoped to fix.)

Dick had his balls handed to him, though, when they headed toward the meowing.

There, they found the excellent excellence Dick'd been searching for.

That excellence was up in a tree.

And had a fabutasmally awesome ass.

Excellence also wore black lace panties.

Both Dick and Guy With Dick knew this because Excellence currently had them on display while she cooed toward a wretched orange furball.

Which was a branch above her head and wobbly feet.

Dick could feel Guy With Dick's reflexes start to kick in, at the same time that Dick's... _hopes_ started to rise.


	20. Your Arms

**I haven't been writing drabbles lately. (Gasp, I know.) And I thought I had run out till I found this lone one.**

**Disclaimer: I own some amazing banana pudding stuff. SMeyer owns Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit.[]ly/pLA7qS**

Freedom.

Such a tangible, ethereal feeling.

Not always there, not always missing.

It's fickle and fragile.

I've only ever found it in two places.

Found it for real, for actual.

For longer than a fleeting moment of frivolity.

And one of them is in the wind, in that firm and honest facet of nature.

In the breeze, the bliss.

The way it blows and lifts and gives.

Never judges, never takes.

It's freeing and full.

I can't get enough, can't stop.

Can't stay away.

Something that's undeniably and unequivocally true for both.

And the other place?

Is in your arms.


	21. Regrets and Redos

**Prompt for this is... I don't even know, man. But it wanted out when I finally had the time to let something out and so here it is. No prereader or beta, so be cautious of typo debris.  
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**Disclaimer: I own a yawn of perpetuation. SMeyer owns her Twilight series.**

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><p>He is warm above me, solid and real.<p>

But tentative, hesitant.

His movements whisper his 'sorry', his rhythm is his apology.

I'm the one that made mistakes, though. The one that walked away, left it all, abandoned us, discarded him.

And then spent five years trying to forget him, forget everything he ever made me feel, forget what it was like to be and feel alive.

Tried, but never did. No matter how adept I became at fooling myself.

I seek and find his eyes now, grab and hold their gaze. In them, I find understanding, a determination that steals all breath.

It's a determination that screams he's not letting me go this time, won't let me disappear out of his life without a backward glance.

Not like he did before.

I can see – more than that, I can _feel_ – the regret he's harbored for that decision, that choice.

But he's letting it fall away, letting more and more of it slide out of him with every heartbeat, with every slide into me.

I bring us even closer, let my hands and my touch speak for me. Let our skin and our bodies say the words we're not ready for.


	22. Shouldn't

**This is all Vican's fault. Bossing me into writing drabbles and then giving me prompts and such. Her fault.**

**Disclaimer: I own a breeze coming lusciously through my window, SMeyer owns creation of vampy Forks.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/n0g5e1**

It's hazy, but I see him.

Waiting on me, waiting for me.

His stance is accepting, his shoulders patient.

But his hands yearn and beg and want.

He's miles away, or at least looks it, but I can still tell that about him.

I know him better than I do myself, after all.

Or I _did_.

He still looks the same, still looks exactly as he did when he left.

No, when he was taken.

It's strange, that I'd thought he'd be dressed differently.

That I thought he'd look different, even.

He doesn't, and somehow that's the scariest thing in all of this.

Not that I can see him, not that I'm following him, not that I'm undecided about everything.

Just that he looks unchanged, unerring; perfect as always and usual.

But he shouldn't.

I don't, and so therefore he shouldn't. He _shouldn't_.

He shouldn't and then he's gone.

Brightness blinks into intruding focus, even as I worry it's my thoughts that sent him away.


	23. Vanish

**This was originally going to be my entry of prompt 20, Vanish, for the Twilight Twenty-Five. But it was too long and I didn't have the heart to shorten it. So, here it is instead.**

**Disclaimer: I own my brain (most of the time). SMeyer owns Twilight and the characters I imagined while writing this.  
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><p><strong>Prompt - Vanish<strong>

There's pain, lashing like a tornado, spiraling out.

Blinding, but not enough that I can't see.

That I can't make you out in the murk, the haze.

Your shadow is bright, your silhouette holding me captive.

I try to tell you, to show you, to somehow illustrate or convey what's happening.

You only watch. Don't flinch, don't move, I can't even tell if you breathe.

But you watch, watch me fall apart, watch as it takes over, as my seams split and my body cracks, my skin gives way.

And my heart gives up.

Too soon and too late, it's gone.

You're gone.

Nothing remains, not darkness or gray, not fog or any trace of light.

All of it, everything – disappeared.


	24. Button

**I was getting undressed when this drabble plagued. And it actually wound up coming to 100 words.  
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**Disclaimer: I own some pink lemonade frosting I made. SMeyer just owns Twilight.**

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><p>Her hand is on his shirt, his chest, as she fiddles.<p>

A black button, four holes, stitched seamlessly, securely.

She fastens it, unfastens it. Just the one, only one.

Buttons, unbuttons. Fixes, undoes. Hooks, unhooks.

Closes, unlocks.

In, out.

"No one will bake or buy me a cake for my birthday anymore," she shares quietly, speaks into his chest, confesses to the fabric and the button.

He wants to ask, to push, but he's here to _listen_.

"They're afraid I'll dissect and criticize anything they got me."

Smoothing her hair, tracing the strap of her bra, he waits.

"They're right."


	25. Purr

**I blame Chelle for this.  
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**Disclaimer: I own too many (read: never enough) earrings. SMeyer owns the Twilight.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/zJaHob**

I watch him play with my cat, watch him make her purr.

Can't help imagining him making _me_ purr.

He strokes down her back, pulls his hand away, makes her nudge him to continue.

I can't stop myself from picturing him stroking _me_, teasing me, leaving me wanting, making me beg.

He looks to be throwing her into bliss when he slips a finger up her chin, down, up again.

Thinking about his fingers performing the exact same motions on me, nearly sends me lunging for him.

The idea of his hand, his fingers, on me, on _my_ personal kitty, slipping up and down, in, out, the rough hair on his chin and jaw scraping against me, his eyes focused on me as he makes me purr...

All of it is enough to make me want to throw my cat aside and take her place.


	26. He and She

**Apparently I like to write at least a drabble a day now? idk idk.**

**Disclaimer: I don't know why I still put disclaimers, and SMeyer doesn't know either. But she owns Twilight anyway.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/wM6kFp**

She's stomping up the trail, pissed and determined.

He hums something soft, unlocks his car.

She can't stop thinking about him, about how rude he was, how inconsiderate and presumptuous and _what an asshole_.

He wonders what he'll make, if she'd prefer pasta or meat. Pasta with meat?

She doesn't care how attractive he _thinks _he is – she's not playing any more games with him.

He's excited to see her, imagines if she'll still be wearing her bikini or not.

There's loud rustling, gravel crunching.

She's fuming, he's smiling; she lunges, he laughs.

But he catches her.

"Well, hello again."


	27. Streak

**Disclaimer: I own a privilege of seeing pretty Tennessee skies. SMeyer just owns Twilight.**

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><p>I settle back into the grass, aware of his heat beside me.<p>

But we're not touching. I don't think we can, not anymore.

The sky is a light blue, fading into gentle oranges and reds, wispy clouds spread out here and there.

What catches my eye most, though, is the white streak, like a trail from a jet or a plane. Only there's no dot anywhere, no tell-tale signs of anything that could have caused it.

It's just an even line of fluffy-looking white, starting out of the blue, streaming across at a downward angle before stopping.

That streak is us.

We began out of nowhere, fast and relentless, fearless and eager.

But we fell just as fast, a streamlined shooting star – bright and doomed.

And like the streak, we end just as abruptly, too.

"Is this it?" Three whispered words, three words to break my heart.

Three words of truth.

"Yeah. It is."


	28. Wanted to Hate

**Disclaimer: I own these random words for Chelle. SMeyer owns the sparkle-vamps.**

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><p><strong>Prompt - http:bit[.]ly/KgDyYK**

The first time I saw you, you were on a swing.

You were in frayed jean shorts, a man's heavy-looking shirt cut off just below your breasts.

Your belly button seemed fascinating, your shorts so low I could tell you didn't have any underwear on.

You looked so carefree, so happy.

I wanted to hate you. For that simple fact alone.

For being so beautiful, and radiating such happiness, such fun.

I felt like simply standing next to you would cheer me up, touching you would set me on fire, spark a joy so strong it couldn't be contained.

Just like yours couldn't be contained.

I wanted to hate you, for making me want to know you, to know that kind of contentment. To see your eyes up close, to see them shine with it.

To feel your skin, feel your love, feel your heart.

I wanted to hate you. But instead I love you.


	29. Care

**Disclaimer: I own random scenes in my head, SMeyer owns Twilight, and my cat owns me.**

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><p>"I just want someone to care!" She throws her hands up with the words, her wine glass forgotten in one of them. Her face is upset, lined with weariness, her eyes dark, shadowed and brimming.<p>

He watches silently from the couch, listens. Lets her go on.

"I want someone to hear me when I talk. I want someone to listen."

He almost snorts, because isn't that exactly what he's doing right now? Isn't that exactly what he's done for all this time? Listened, waited.

And hoped.

"I want them to be _interested_ in what I'm saying."

He's interested. He always has been. In more ways than just what she has to say.

How can she not see that? How can she not see him?

"I want..." Her voice breaks, her hands drop, she blinks repeatedly as if to hold back tears. All the fire seems to have burned out, left nothing in its wake. "I want to matter. To someone. I want to matter to someone like that."

_You matter to me_, he wants to say. But would she even hear him?

"I just want someone to care." But it's quieter now, desperate. Desolate.

Lonely, like him.

"I care, Bella."


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